A/N: I'm gearing up to finish 'iDouble Date', but the holiday season kicked my ass and I just needed to get back into iCarly mode, so here's this little oneshot.

Set right after 'iQuit iCarly'.

Carly was upstairs showering exactly four seconds after she, Sam, and Freddie arrived at her apartment after school.

There had been an incident in the science lab.

Even all the way downstairs in the kitchen, Carly could still be heard cursing Sam and her inappropriate handling of dissection specimens, the sound only somewhat muffled after the bathroom door slammed shut and the shower was turned on full blast.

Sam shrugged as she layered yet more ham on the enormous sandwich she was compiling. "What's a little eye goo between friends?"

Freddie said, "It was the vitreous humor from a dead cow's eyeball, Sam."

"That's what I said." She lifted the sandwich and took a big bite.

"You got it in her hair."

"Girl owns fifteen kinds of shampoo. I'm sure one of them gets out eye goo." All this said with her mouth full. "Hey, that rhymed," she added, and leaned over and socked Freddie in the shoulder.

"What does rhyming have to do with punching me?" Freddie demanded. He rubbed at his arm briefly before returning to finishing his own, normal-sized, sandwich.

Sam shrugged. "That's the rule. Random rhyming gets you a punch. Make a haiku, it's a Texas wedgie."

He couldn't help laughing as he followed her over to the couch to eat. He set his plate on his lap and reached for the TV remote. After a few seconds he realised Sam was talking softly beside him.

"Fredward. Is. A. Dork," she was saying under her breath, while counting with her fingers. "He's. So. Lame. It. Makes. Me. Sad."

"Stop trying to make a haiku!"

With a little snort of laughter she settled back into the corner of the couch and returned her attention to her sandwich.

After a few minutes, Carly's shower was continuing unabated, there wasn't anything much on television, and Sam, who'd finished her snack, was getting bored. She didn't say it, Freddie just knew. It did not bode well.

He finished his sandwich and warily placed the empty plate on the coffee table. They were watching someone demonstrating how to make banana-cinnamon quesadillas. A few more minutes went by and he was just starting to relax again.

"I finished my haiku," Sam announced suddenly.

Show no fear, he told himself. "Oh yeah?"

"Fredward is a dork," she recited. "He's so lame it makes me sad. A wedgie might help."

"Funny. But it doesn't count. It has to be spontaneous."

"Says who?"

"Those are the rules."

"It's a fake game! I made up the rules five minutes ago."

"Yeah, I know. Like your little slappy-hands game the other day."

"No way, that was a real game."

He didn't really care about the slapping game, but he was glad it had taken her attention away from the topic of wedgies. So he kept arguing. "I'm pretty sure in the real game you're supposed to take turns trying to slap each other. And only hands, not faces."

"No, the second person gets to take a turn when the first person misses. I didn't miss. It was a winning streak."

"But you didn't even tell me how to play, you just lined me up and started hitting."

"That's what makes the game fun. For me."

All right, now he cared. He never could pass up an opportunity to try and beat her at something. "Okay then, rematch. This time, I'm taking the first turn."

"You're on," she said eagerly. She swivelled round, drawing one knee up on the couch to face him, holding out her hands in the correct position -- palms together, fingers pointing at him.

He did the same, mirroring her, so their fingertips were just touching.

"But I'm going first," she added, just as he was gearing up for his first slap.

"What? I called it, you can't just -- OW."

She'd slapped him. Of course she had.

At least she only slapped his hand this time, not his face.

"Told you I was going first," she said, bringing her hand back to starting position. "And since we're following the rules, it is now my turn again."

He ignored her smirky face, which showed just how much she was enjoying this. He was going to be ready this time. He stared intently at her hands, determined to move his own hands away in time to avoid the painful, painful slapping.

"OW." She was so fast. "How are you doing this?"

She shrugged. "Don't take it personally. I'm just really good at hurting people."

He rolled his eyes. "Just shut up and play, Puckett."

This time, just to be even more evil, she feinted a couple times, inching her hand forward and watching him flinch back, then laughing.

But then something happened that turned the game around. Her laughter drew his eyes away from their hands, and up to her face. And he saw it. The moment before she moved for real, her eyes narrowed, focused, small muscles around her mouth tightening up.

He pulled his hands out of the way just as hers flew out to slap them.

"YES!" He threw his arms in the air in triumph. "You missed me! My turn, now, I believe. Prepare to be slapped back to last week, Puckett."

"Pfft. Whatever. It was a fluke."

They both put their hands out in front of them, and were still. A long moment passed.

"Any time now, Frederella."

But he'd been watching her face again, and saw the moment her attention wandered -- glancing up as she taunted him. And that's when he whipped his hand out and slapped hers as hard as he could before she had a chance to so much as flinch.

She stared at him. "Dude, ow."

"That," he said, "Was so satisfying."

"Fluke," she ground out, glaring at him.

"Maybe you just suck at this game when you play fair."

"Maybe you should stop yapping and play."

They got ready again, and she stared down at their hands. He watched her face again, surprised at how much he could tell just by looking. And the moment he saw her attention waiver for an instant --

"Yeah, it is not as fun this way around," Sam said, as she shook her hand to dispel the sting.

Freddie decided to just be smug about this and not say anything. It felt so good to beat her at something for once.

The next time, she just barely managed to avoid the slap, and since he missed, it was her turn again. But he wasn't worried. He knew the secret now. He knew her secret.

And when she took her turn, her hand darted out to no avail. She missed him by a mile.

"Okay, what is happening?" she demanded.

"Don't take it personally," he echoed her words from earlier. Oh yeah, revenge was sweet. "I'm just really good at --"

"No seriously," she interrupted, "What's the deal?"

Something in his reaction must have betrayed him because she leaned over and grabbed him by the front of the shirt.

"Tell me!"

"I-it's nothing!" he stammered. "Just luck, I swear! Like you said, a total fluke." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. He pressed on. "You really think you can't beat me?"

She let him go. "Of course I can. This isn't crazy backwards land."

They got ready again. His turn. And as he watched her face, more expressive than he'd ever really understood before, he realised what he was going to do. What he had to do.

He was going to throw his turn.

It wasn't even really like letting her win, it was just that he didn't use his new secret advantage. She was pretty good otherwise, with fast reflexes -- a lot faster than his, to be honest. Not that he would ever admit that to her. He just tried to slap her hand, and naturally she yanked them out of the way in time.

"Shoosh yeah," she cried, "Uh-huh, what, oh yeah, that's what I'm talking about!" The rejoicing went on for a little while longer. And then again after she took her next turn at slapping, and was victorious.

He, the slapee, rubbed the back of his hand. Damn, that stung! And watching her all happy about getting to injure him yet again didn't exactly help.

It wasn't like he enjoyed it. He didn't.

But the fact was, if he'd kept winning, she would have gotten more suspicious, and then she would have jumped him, flattened him, and pummelled him until he talked. And he didn't want her to know what he knew, that he could read her, that everything was spelled out on her face for all to see -- or for him it was, now, anyway.

This way he had an advantage over her she didn't know about. And if there was one thing he needed when it came to Sam Puckett, it was that. He couldn't help wondering about other situations in which his new-found knowledge could be applied.

"Come on, let's go again," Sam said, literally bouncing in her seat.

With a sigh, he put his hands out, ready.

She smacked him across the face.

"SAM!" he yelled, spluttering and clutching his cheek.

She fell back against the couch arm, laughing her head off.

He glared at her, but couldn't put too much feeling behind it. After all, he really should have seen it coming.

By the time Carly came down a few minutes later, freshly showered and de-grossified, Freddie was sporting angry red marks on both sides of his face.

And Sam, of course, being Sam, just looked proud of herself as Carly pointed and said, "Look what you did to Freddie! He has your handprints all over him!"

And yeah, he did. But it still felt like a victory.